


Proxy

by childrenofthesun



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22636852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/childrenofthesun/pseuds/childrenofthesun
Summary: The way Crowley treats his plants has repercussions for more than just himself.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 255
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	Proxy

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt on the kinkmeme: https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=1676633#cmt1676633
> 
> This... this one came from a very personal place for me. I do apologise if Aziraphale is OOC, I projected onto him pretty hard with some of my past experiences when writing this. I do want to preface this fic by saying I'm in a much better headspace now than I was when I was experiencing the things I drew upon in writing Aziraphale here.
> 
> Given that, I do want to warn for Aziraphale struggling heavily with self-esteem issues and panic attacks. Please proceed with caution if such things are liable to cause you distress.

Aziraphale hummed quietly to himself as he gathered his things to leave for the day. Crowley, as was sometimes his wont, had curled himself up in bed, head barely poking out from under the covers. The angel pressed a kiss against his flame-coloured hair, reminding him not to expect Aziraphale back until at least midday. He received a sleepy murmur of acknowledgement from somewhere within the Crowley-shaped lump of blankets and pillows, quickly followed by a soft snore. Aziraphale smiled fondly and bustled out the door, excited to spend the morning perusing the collection of a rare book collector he'd met on the internet - a tool he was slowly becoming proficient in, at Crowley's insistence.

The actual experience did not live up to expectation.

Most of the books had been beyond even his ability to restore, and the pitiful few that weren't had such a high price tag that he was almost tempted to exert a little divine intervention to haggle the price down to something actually reasonable. That would hardly be fair, though, and it wasn't as if Aziraphale actually cared about the expense, it was more the principle. Still, he felt duty-bound to rescue the few tomes that could be salvaged, so he begrudgingly miracled up the appropriate denominations of bank notes and handed them over, heading home with his meagre prize several hours earlier than intended.

The sight of the lovingly tended front garden cheered him, as it always did. Crowley took such exacting pride in the plants surrounding their home - and the ones he kept in the sunroom inside. He'd caught the demon whispering sternly to them once or twice, always quieting embarrassedly when he noticed Aziraphale watching, which was beyond endearing.

He stepped through the front gate, happily inhaling the delicate scent drifting from the spring blossoms. He adored their cottage, he really did, this physical representation of their entwined existence, their enduring love.

_You don't deserve any of it._

The words were an insidious, well-worn whisper, tugging at the corners of his mind, determined to unravel any threads of happiness that dared gather within him.

The Voice had been with Aziraphale for as long as he could remember, an unwelcome houseguest in the chambers of his brain. Mostly it brooded silently in the corner, but it was always plotting, ready to pounce upon Aziraphale in his greatest moments of weakness. He had always tried not let himself think the Voice sounded like anyone in particular. More recently, he'd allowed himself to think it sounded like some of the Archangels - a safe thought now that he was effectively out of their employ. The constant barrage of backhanded compliments and resigned disappointment he'd received from them over the millennia had certainly done a lot to fuel the Voice's dialogue.

_What sort of angel are you anymore, if no one in Heaven will even speak with you? When the only place you'll hear their voices again is inside your own head? Why should you be allowed happiness when you've proven yourself to be such a failure?_

Aziraphale ignored the taunt, just as he'd always ignored the fact that more than anyone, the Voice sounded like himself. It was far easier to frame the Voice as an entity separate from himself instead, to frame it as something that wasn't an intrinsic part of himself and could eventually be defeated. 

_Oh, you_ would _like that, wouldn't you? I_ am _you. You'll never be rid of me._

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, shoulders squared as he carried his paltry collection of new additions inside to his desk, making sure to keep his movements quiet in case Crowley was still napping. He sternly told his hands not to tremble, and they begrudgingly obeyed, lungs pumping air in and out of him with forced regularity.

He'd spent six thousand years walking gingerly along a knife's edge of adequacy in the eyes of Heaven, the Voice like a pebble in his shoe trying to throw him off balance. Having spent so long with the Voice as his companion, however, meant he'd grown quite adept at being able to ignore it. 

Most of the time. 

He'd just set his little bag down when he heard Crowley's voice, almost unrecognisable for the abject fury that filled it.

"You worthless little waste of space, what d'you even think you're doing?"

Aziraphale froze. 

For all that the Voice had been a constant in his life at least as long as Crowley had, it had never once sounded like the demon before. Then he realised that the voice hadn't been in his head at all, but behind the door down the hall from him, leading to Crowley's sunroom. 

His stomach soured unpleasantly. Crowley's words sounded so similar to the sort of things the Voice would say, and Aziraphale couldn't sense anyone else in the room with him. It hardly bore thinking about, but Aziraphale began to wonder whether Crowley had a Voice of his own, one that he vocalised out loud. He'd rather thought that of the two of them, the demon was more at peace with himself (and wasn't that an irony), but perhaps Aziraphale had been wrong? It wouldn't have been the first time that Aziraphale had misjudged the depth of Crowley's emotions. Was he doing the demon a disservice yet again?

"Wilting leaves? You have the audacity to go and _wilt_ on me?"

Dully, Aziraphale realised that Crowley wasn't talking to himself, he was talking to his plants. It did nothing to stem the rising tide of fear within him, his perception unravelling at the periphery. He gripped at a nearby bookshelf, tried to centre himself by reading the titles on the well-tended spines, but it was in vain. The sight of the bookshelf kept slipping away from him, superimposed with the cold, austere expanse of Heaven as he was told he wasn't good enough. He pushed away from the shelf, casting himself adrift with uncertainty. He wrung his hands, breath quickening as tension sent his shoulders creeping up towards his ears.

"I've only ever asked one thing of you. Why is it that you can't follow the most basic instructions? Why do I even keep you around, if you're just going to disappoint me like this?"

_You should leave_ , _he clearly doesn't want you here_ , the Voice hissed, the harsh sibilance of Crowley's tone twining with the cruel whisper in his ears until they were indistinguishable.

He took a few faltering steps towards the door to the sunroom, his instinct to go to Crowley stronger than the growing urge to flee. He needed to ask Crowley to please stop talking to the plants like that, for the demon to please be kinder, to beg him for mercy, please, Aziraphale was trying his best and he was so genuinely sorry if that wasn't enough-

"Frankly, I'm insulted that you thought you'd be able to get away with being so _utterly useless_!"

The last few words were shouted, the walls almost reverberating with the volume. Aziraphale felt the room simultaneously shrink around him and expand out into infinity. It felt as if the entire universe was pressing down on him from all directions, and he collapsed under the weight of it. His knees sagged and he staggered the rest of the way to the door before his limbs gave out entirely, curling up against it and pressing back, like that would keep Crowley's voice from reaching him. 

_You have to get up. Why aren't you getting up? Do you_ want _him to find you like this? Do you want to prove him right?_

Aziraphale choked on a sob, digging his nails into his palms so hard that he could feel blood welling up beneath them. 

_You do, don't you? You want him to find you like this, so pathetic, so broken, and give you all the reassurances and comforting words you know you don't deserve._

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice, is that it?" Crowley's voice went low and dangerous, dripping with venom. "Did you, what, did you think that I'd give a _single flaw_ a free pass? Were you expecting _mercy_? Hm? Did you think I'd settle for anything less than _utter perfection_?" He let out a cold laugh that sent violent tremors down the length of Aziraphale's spine. "You thought very, _very_ wrong, my friend. Way I see it, you're either perfect, or you're _nothing_."

_I wonder which you are_ , the Voice whispered insidiously. _You know, if you really loved him, you'd be strong enough to get over this yourself. You'd be able to be perfect for his sake._

"I'm trying," Aziraphale whispered against his knees, so terrified Crowley would hear him, but needing so desperately to drown out the cruel words filling his head. "Please, I'm trying, please..."

_You want to make him have to deal with how weak you are. What gives you the right to burden him like that? He's been through so much himself, how is it fair of you to ask him to deal with you on top of everything else? How selfish can you_ be _?_

Aziraphale tried, oh but he tried, to get to his feet, to run away, to spare Crowley the miserable sight of him going to pieces like this. His limbs refused to obey him, locking down harder every time he ordered them to move. He crushed his eyes shut, pressing them hard enough against his knees that it hurt, an ugly sob rising from within the depths of him before he could smother it.

There was a shift in the next room, and Aziraphale bit down on his tongue as another traitorous sob built in his chest. He flinched at each footfall growing closer and curled himself in tighter, as if there was some point he could reach where he could vanish entirely, and Crowley would never have to see him like this.

The door bumped against his back, and Aziraphale's limbs finally unfroze, if only for a moment, violently shoving the door shut. A horrid, anguished sound he hadn't known he was capable of making clawed its way out of his throat. His fingertips left bloody trails against the wood as he tried to disappear into it. 

"...Angel?" Crowley's voice was tentative, confused, and when Aziraphale did nothing, just held the door shut with his useless trembling hands, his tone grew sharper, more concerned. "Angel, is that you? What's wrong?"

_You are, obviously,_ the Voice whispered, sickly sweet. _As soon as he realises that, he'll abandon you, too, just like Heaven did._

Aziraphale tried to tell himself that wasn't true at all, that Crowley had already chosen their side over all of Heaven and Hell. But he had just sounded so full of loathing and contempt, it had made Aziraphale feel…

_Oh, yes, tell him it's his fault. That will definitely fix things._

There was a sound of snapping fingers, the smell of sulphur and smoke as Crowley teleported himself into the room. Then a soft gasp and the sound of pottery shattering. Aziraphale's shoulders hunched up towards his ears as he flinched, eyes cracking open and snapping towards the sound involuntarily. 

A sad, tattered calathea lay on the floor, all bared roots and wilted leaves splayed limply amongst the dirt and terracotta shards. Aziraphale stared at the pathetic little thing lying there and promptly burst into tears. 

Alarmed, Crowley dropped to his knees beside the angel, reaching out with uncertain hands, scrutinising Aziraphale's face for any adverse reactions to his embrace. Aziraphale sagged against him with all the inevitability of a building collapsing, burrowing his head against the demon's chest in a fruitless attempt to hide. 

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale gasped, tears streaking down his face in earnest, feeling his chest constrict, struggling to draw in air. He knew, logically, that he didn't need to breathe, but his corporation seemed determined to betray him on every level. With what little breath he could catch, he babbled, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I promise you I'll do better, please, just give me another chance, I'm sorry..."

"Angel," Crowley murmured, voice thick with love and concern, and Aziraphale hated it, he hated it, he didn't deserve to receive such kindness for all his shortcomings, "What's happened?"

A wet laugh burbled out through Aziraphale's tears. Nothing had _happened_. Aziraphale was just so weak that this one tiny thing could send him into a complete tailspin. He knew how wretched he must look and sound and oh, how had he ever thought Crowley would love something as useless and broken as he was? Crowley had already been through what Aziraphale had spent six millennia fearing would happen to him, how could Aziraphale possibly admit that he was so afraid of Falling that it could reduce him to such a blubbering disappointment?

Aziraphale curled himself up tight, minimising the surface area that Crowley could touch. His skin crawled at the sensation of Crowley's hand moving in gentle strokes over his back, itching with the desire to pull away, to tell Crowley it was fine, really, he'd just had a bit of an overreaction, no need to worry.

He didn't move. He stayed exactly where he was. Crowley's touch was the only thing keeping him from completely spiralling apart. 

"All right," Crowley told him softly. "We'll just sit here until you're ready, how's that sound?"

It sounded terrible. Aziraphale couldn't bear to even imagine the look on Crowley's face when he revealed the depths of his pitifulness.

The alternative sounded even worse, though, so Aziraphale stayed there, the parts of him that weren't busy splitting down the middle committing the demon's touch to memory. Crowley wasn't going to want anything to do with him after this, so he really should be savouring it.

Even the thought sent a wave of self-loathing crashing through him. What was wrong with him, that he was so starved for affection from someone who already gave him everything, that he would force Crowley to quite literally drop everything and hold him like this?

He needed to apologise. He needed to get over this and apologise.

His eyes fell on the battered calathea and he swallowed around the lump in his throat, suddenly fixated.

"I'm sorry for ruining your plant," he murmured quietly, voice thick and wavering. 

Crowley made a soothing noise at him. "'S all right, angel. I was on my way to throwing it out anyway." He offered the angel a smile as he weakly joked, "Can't have underperforming plants in my garden, can I?"

The pit within Aziraphale's stomach yawned wide once more and fresh tears welled in his eyes, the tremors returning as he shrunk in on himself within the circle of Crowley's arms. Crowley gave him an alarmed look for all of two seconds before horrified realisation dawned. 

"Oh, G- _Aziraphale_ , I didn't mean-" He frantically cradled the angel's face in his hands, somehow managing to keep his touch gentle in case Aziraphale wanted to pull away instead. "I thought it was just because I was yelling, I didn't realise- I'm so _sorry_ , angel."

Aziraphale didn't reply, laying limp in Crowley's arms, quietly waiting for the Voice to tear apart what was left of him.

He didn't get words; just a soundless, incomprehensible shriek deep within his brain, and a sensation like all the happiness he'd ever dared to feel trickling away, out of his reach. He felt hollowed out in a way he never had before. What did it say about him, that Crowley thought that simply raising his voice had sent Aziraphale to pieces like this? Had the Voice been right all along, was he really that weak?

"Aziraphale?" Crowley asked, concern colouring his tone, and oh, he sounded so, so far away, "Angel, can you please talk to me, are you up to that?"

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale whispered automatically, unable to meet the demon's gaze.

"Fuck, don't-" Crowley bit off the words, tension briefly locking his arms before he forced himself to settle. "Don't apologise, Aziraphale. It's not your fault, you have nothing to apologise for."

"I don't want to Fall," Aziraphale blurted before he could stop himself. He crushed his eyes shut, taking in a shuddering breath and holding it.

That was it, then. He'd finally admitted it. Crowley was going to push him away, disgusted, and leave him all on his own, like he deserved.

"Of course you don't, angel," Crowley told him tenderly. "Nobody does. And you won't. Least of all for this. I would never think less of you for being scared of something like that. I can definitely attest to it, it's… not a pleasant experience."

Aziraphale looked up, reaching for him, shuddering a little when the demon obligingly took his hand. "I love you," he choked out around the sudden lump in his throat. "I know I tell you all the time, and I worry that doing so might dilute the meaning of the words, but I really do, with everything I have."

"I love you, too, angel," Crowley told him, gently stroking Aziraphale's knuckles with his thumb. "I'll tell you as often as you need me to, and it'll always be true."

"Could you…" Aziraphale hiccupped on another sob. "Will you be all right if you don't yell at your plants anymore?"

Crowley's breath hitched as he nodded several times. "I think-" He swallowed, hard. "I think… I can be kinder than what's been done to me."

Aziraphale sniffled.

Crowley's head turned towards the sunroom, then back down to Aziraphale. "They deserve better. So did I. So do you."

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said. Crowley give him a slightly stern look, and he hastily amended, "Not for this. For- for everything else. I-I've said so many cruel and unjust things to you, and I've treated you so poorly in the past, and I've never apologised for any of it, and you _do_ deserve so much better-" His throat closed over again, swallowing the rest of his words. He tried anyway, and just ended up with broken noises spilling from his lips.

"Hey, hey, it's all right, no need to go so fast." His mouth quirked into a wry smile, gently wiping away the angel's tears with his thumb. Aziraphale shuddered at the gesture, leaning into it. "We can get to that when you're feeling a bit more like yourself, OK? There's no rush. We can go as slow as you need."

Aziraphale laughed wetly.

"See? There's my angel." He smiled softly. "How about we do something to help you unwind a bit? Did you grab anything interesting from that bookseller of yours?"

Aziraphale was just so tired. The last thing he wanted to do was have to think. "If it's all right with you," he hazarded, "I rather think I'd like to give sleeping a try, more than anything else."

Crowley's posture softened, and he swept an errant curl back off the angel's forehead. "I think I can manage that," he said fondly, and, with a strength belied by his slender form, gently scooped Aziraphale off the floor and headed for their bedroom.


End file.
